


Pull The Trigger

by rhythmicroman



Category: Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Gotham (TV), arkhamverse is implied but not mentioned at all
Genre: "bruce darling", (implied) - Freeform, (mildly), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arkham Verse, Blood, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death In Dream, Child Abuse, Crossover, Crying, Dark, Disappointment, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamsharing, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Episode: s03e14 The Gentle Art of Making Enemies, Flashbacks, Flirting, Gotham Verse, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jerome Valeska is the Joker, Mild Language, Murder, Mutilation, Neck injury, Orphans, Parent Death, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shooting, Shooting Guns, Slut Shaming, Talking To Dead People, Violence, bc the canon age differences Kill Me, bruce is 16-ish and jerome is 18, bruce is 8 and jerome is about 10, casual talk about murder, feat. jerome's hypocritical mother, i guess, in bruce's flashback, in jerome's, jerome is an Asshole, jerome is an asshole with no shame, jerome is really insensitive, mentions of - Freeform, mentions of jerome's petnames, religion jokes, semi-graphic mentions of jerome killing his mother, technically, their ages change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 18:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11560668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhythmicroman/pseuds/rhythmicroman
Summary: “At least I didn’t kill mine.”“Oh, guess not.” The older of the two shrugged, his lower lip jutting out slightly. “But you didn’t save ‘em, either, didja? So we’re even, really.”“No, not really. Your parents being shot when you’re defenceless isn’t the same as chopping up their bodies.”





	Pull The Trigger

**Author's Note:**

> This entire fic was thought up at 7pm after downing a fuckton of stolen KFC sugar packets, listening to the song "Only You" and pondering what would happen after Arkham Knight if the Joker stayed in Bruce's head and just so happened to also be Jerome Valeska.
> 
> Basically a really gross game of spot-the-reference and guess-which-headcanon-I-snuck-in. Enjoy!

“What do you want?”

Bruce felt much too small in his head – too _young,_ too, his mind stuck in the day his parents died. He was standing in the alley, rain pelting him as the bullets fired.

He was almost proud that he didn’t flinch, but then again, he’d seen this dream a thousand times, back when he was younger.

The man with the gun smiled, and flicked back his hood, and there stood the clown, much younger too. His hair was back to its natural orange hue and he looked no different to any other Gotham teen. He smiled wickedly, pointed the barrel of his gun to Bruce’s chest, and pulled the trigger.

_BANG._

Blood seeped from his chest, but he still didn’t flinch. It was numb, it always was – he never ever died in these dreams. The mystery man would shoot him a hundred times, but he’d never die.

Jerome’s laugh, pure and genuine and not hoarse with joker-venom or throat injuries, rang through the air, echoing in the alleys and drowning out the rain’s pattering. He leaned back, and cackled, and then stood up straight again. The laughter was short-lived, but enough to send a chill up his spine.

“What do I want?” He spoke, softly. His fingers found themselves running down the barrel of his pistol, cold metal under his fingertips. He played with the end carelessly, poking each finger in and out like some sort of game. “Well, ’s a good question, Brucie. What _do_ I want?”

Bruce stayed silent, just watching the circus boy’s pale fingers repeat the same pattern – in the muzzle, out the muzzle, one finger at a time. His fingertips were ripped slightly, and oddly red in comparison to the near-snow white of the rest of him. The orphaned billionaire looked up to meet his dark green-blue eyes, and spoke dully. “The safety’s off.”

“Always better when it is. No fun, otherwise. Never know when I’ll flinch and take off a finger,” he made a show of bouncing his fingertip on the trigger. “Or put a hole in my hand. Maybe then you can string me up and crucify me. Give the crims something to worship, eh?”

“Stop it. Just tell me what you want.”

“What I want,” Jerome paused, and licked his lips, and lowered the gun to his side – didn’t put it in any kind of holster, just pressed his hand to his hip, leaning on one leg. His heels kept tapping at the pavement behind him in an annoyingly sporadic and unfamiliar rhythm. “What I want is a little look.”

“A look? At what?”

“Whaddaya think?” He gestured widely around him, spinning and twirling in the rain, coat-tails (which Bruce hadn’t even noticed – he’d been too busy making sure he didn’t lose a digit) flying behind him. “Gotham City, back when you were, what, eight? I was way too little to remember any of this. Way, _way_ too little. Oh, but you’d never forget a year like this.” He grinned wolfishly, licking his teeth before continuing. “The year your parents died.”

“At least I didn’t _kill_ mine.”

“Oh, guess not.” The older of the two shrugged, his lower lip jutting out slightly. “But you didn’t save ‘em, either, didja? So we’re even, really.”

“No, not really. Your parents being shot when you’re defenceless isn’t the same as chopping up their bodies.”

“I only chopped up mother-dearest’s body, not that you’d know. Damn amateur.”

Bruce rolled his eyes, and looked up, catching a glimpse of the sunrise. The distant sound of an engine roaring lit a lightbulb in his mind.

“Get out.” He said, finally. “Get out of my head.”

And Jerome laughed – he threw his head back, and laughed, because if only it was that simple.

* * *

 

Bruce’s next dream was a little bit different.

He was in Haley’s Circus again, the rides swirling around in near-silence, darkness enveloping and swallowing the world around him, the moon looming above him like a giant silver coin in the sky.

He stood, and waited, but no footsteps came running, no pet-names were yelled, no _“Brucie!”_ or _“Darling!”_ called out – just silence.

Well, for a while, anyway.

Then there was muttering, and shuffling, and Jerome appeared, hatchet in hand – and before Bruce could stop him, he was flinging open a door.

“About time you got back!” a voice shrieked. “What were you doing? Hmm? Being the ringleader’s whore?”

“No, mother.” Jerome’s voice sounded strained, like he was keeping something back. Bruce followed quietly, standing behind him, looking over his shoulder – he was clenching his teeth as he spoke, but other than that, he kept perfectly pokerfaced.

The woman in front of him – Lila Valeska, if he remembered correctly – stood with her arms crossed along her chest. Her current clothing didn’t leave much to the imagination – her entire flat stomach was revealed, along with a fair bit of her chest, and Bruce realised, with heated cheeks, that she was barely wearing anything at all.

Her dark eyes found the hatchet in his hands, and her eyebrows furrowed, nose scrunching in disgust.

“You’re being a worker, aren’t you? I fucking knew this would happen. I give you all you ask for, and what you give me is nothing but disappointment, huh? So you go off and chop trees? Building yourself a nice little cabin in the woods, like a hermit?”

Jerome stayed silent as his mother questioned him, and Bruce barely saw his index finger twitch before he was swinging the hatchet above his head. It connected roughly with her collarbone and the side of her throat, and she barely choked out a scream before he swung again, eyes burning.

Her neck was slashed into ribbons first, then her chest and stomach and arms. He seemed to be purposefully avoiding her face, though it was coated with blood and her eyes were bulging out a bit from the pain.

Her corpse lay there, now, and he sat on his knees, still wielding his weapon, blood-soaked and panting. Tears ran down his cheeks as he breathed shakily, before he looked up with dark eyes, smiling bitterly.

“See, Brucie?” he asked, softly. “Chopped ‘er to _bits.”_

The murderer reached up with one hand and cupped Bruce’s jaw, smearing crimson along it. His smile widened and he laughed sadly.

And then, the world turned black.

* * *

 

Bruce woke up in a cold sweat, tears running down his face, duvet balled up in his fists and the metallic taste of Lila Valeska’s blood still stuck in his tastebuds.


End file.
